Colin Warren raised a hand, halting Millie in mid-speech. “My good woman, you are interrupting a private conversation.”
Millie opened her mouth and promptly shut it again. She flushed a deep pink and curtsied. “I beg your pardon, sir, but—”
That languid hand flicked away her excuses like a troublesome gnat. “Take yourself off and be about your business.”
“But—”
“Go.”
Millie fled, closing the door softly behind her.
Bridget turned to him, agape for too many reasons to sort out.
His eyelids slid slowly shut. “As for you, Mrs. Black, I regret that . . .” He slipped to the floor, clutching futilely at the bedclothes as he dropped.
Bridget lurched forward, catching him as he tipped, and lowered him gently the rest of the way to the floor. She flung the door open and scrambled down the stairs. Below, Millie was alternately scolding Nan and predicting the imminent ruin of the Bellowing Bull, while Jed strove calmly to reassure her. Bridget halted just out of view—Millie would be even more unbearable now—and called Jed upstairs to help put Colin back in bed.
“Tsk,” Jed said, removing Colin’s boots again and lifting his head and shoulders. “Shouldn’t have gotten up, but I can’t say I’m surprised he’s in a hurry to leave.”
“He’ll talk with me first,” Bridget said.
“Not by what Millie told me.” They deposited him on the bed once again.
“Mr. Warren ordered Millie to leave because she was interrupting our conversation,” Bridget said, “which means according to him the conversation wasn’t over yet.” At least she hoped that was what it meant. “If she hadn’t barged in…” She took a breath and composed herself. “She was trying to defend you, but she needn’t have. If she’d only given me time to explain, all would have been well.”
Jed snorted. “Want me to go for the doctor?”
“No, a doctor would try to bleed him. He’s lost enough blood already. Mr. Warren needs to stay still and rest, but he might feel more resigned to staying here if…I have it! Let’s send for his valet!”
Jed sighed. “That’ll be fun, it will. A namby-pamby gentleman’s gentleman in our tumbledown inn. I’ll go for him myself.” He stamped down the stairs and away.
Someone was holding Colin’s hand. That felt warm and kind, and comforting too, until the clear, unfettered voice of the child, Sylvie, demanded to know when her so-called father would go away.
“Hush, Sylvie,” said another voice—Bridget O’Something Black. “He’ll leave when he’s feeling better, and he is not so-called, but your actual father.”
“I don’t want him,” Sylvie said. What the devil had he done to make the little chit dislike him so much?
“Nor do I,” Bridget said, “but that’s nothing to the point.”
At that, a pang assailed Colin’s foggy brain. I don’t like you much either, he wanted to say, or your unpleasant child, but his tongue wouldn’t work, which was probably all for the best. Just because Bridget disliked him didn’t mean he should forget his manners. Besides that, the child was listening. He didn’t want children—didn’t have any children—but he wouldn’t treat one unkindly
“Then why are you holding his hand?” Sylvie’s question was heavy with disapproval.
“Because he’s ill, and I’m worried about him,” Bridget said. “I want him to get better.”
“So you can talk to him about me,” the girl said.
“Yes.”
“And then he’ll go away.”
“Yes.” Bridget sounded impatient, and no wonder. “But in the meantime, look on the bright side. He’s the one who gave you your big brown eyes and your lovely dimples. People always compliment you on those. You’re going to grow up to be a beautiful woman, and much of it will be because you have such a handsome father.”
Kind of her to acknowledge that Colin was good-looking, although he’d been allowed to live only because she needed to talk to him. Women usually wanted other, more interesting interaction with him.
Except that it wasn’t interesting anymore. Misery washed over him, and a degrading whimper escaped his lips. Mrs. Black’s fingers tightened on his. He missed being consumed with desire, missed chasing women and winning them, missed the anticipation and the fierce sensuality of a woman like Mrs. Black. Although come to think of it, he’d never found another quite like her.
Not that it mattered. Something had gone wrong with him, something that had taken all his pleasure in life away. Compared to that, the throbbing in his arm hardly mattered.
And not that he wanted Mrs. Black; he hoped never to see her or the child who was not his again.
He resisted the urge to snatch his hand away and remained utterly still, chagrined and hopeless and angry…and afraid of his own misery, pretending to be asleep so she wouldn’t know.
“Mr. Martin Fallow is handsomer,” Sylvie said.
And he probably wallowed in sensual delights, blast him.
“That’s true.” Bridget sighed again, a sound full of sad reminiscence.
Colin had a bizarre urge to weep, which just went to show he wasn’t in his right mind. Being clubbed and stabbed had addled him. What did he care about Bridget Black, the annoying Sylvie, and the handsomer Martin what’s-his-name?
He fell asleep again, waking to find the impassive face of Fletcher, his valet, floating above him. He blinked away the fog in his vision and realized with relief that Fletcher’s head was still attached to his shoulders. “Thank God,” he said thickly.
“Indeed, sir,” Fletcher said. “It appears you were attacked and robbed when you left a gaming hell last evening.” His unemotional tone conveyed a world of disapproval.
Is that what they told you? Colin gazed gingerly about—which hurt—and noted with dismay that he was in the same dingy room as earlier. Judging by the meagre light coming through the tiny window, it was evening. The incorrigible Mrs. Black must have sent for Fletcher, which surprised him. Maybe he’d slept so long that she’d feared the worst.
“I don’t remember much beyond winning,” he said tentatively.
“According to Mrs. Black—a most pleasant woman, and not the sort I would have expected to succumb to your seductive blandishments, but everyone makes mistakes—”
“Get to the point, Fletcher,” Colin growled.
“As I was saying, according to Mrs. Black, the thief snatched a small purse from your hand, but a much larger one was found in your pocket. It is on the dresser and contains a little over two hundred and ninety guineas.”
That sounded right. He’d had close to twenty in the purse he’d lost. Clever of her to leave the rest untouched.
“She is most contrite, because it was whilst you were defending her from two drunken gentlemen that the thief took you unawares.”
He didn’t believe this, but just for the exercise, Colin tried to remember such an occurrence, and failed.
“It is not uncommon for a blow to the head to affect one’s memory,” Fletcher said, “so it isn’t surprising that you don’t recall charging to the rescue like a knight in shining armor.”
He enjoyed Fletcher’s sense of humor more when it was at someone else’s expense. “Are those your words or hers?” he snarled.
“Hers, repeated verbatim.” Like a conjurer, Fletcher produced a glass containing a foul-looking mixture. “If I lift your head, sir, perhaps you could swallow a spoonful or two of this remedy. It will ease the pain and help you to mend.”
Reluctantly, Colin allowed his valet to feed him several spoonsful of the potion and then sank back upon the pillows. “Get me out of here.”
“I do not think that advisable just yet, sir,” Fletcher intoned. “You had a couple of blows to the head as well as a stab wound to the arm. You must stay
as still as possible while you heal. If all goes well, we should be able to return home tomorrow or the day after.”
Colin groaned. “What is this place?” Before Fletcher answered, he knew. “Grub Street?”
Fletcher nodded. “It is not up to your customary standard in accommodations, needless to say, but the landlord is a former servant of Mrs. Black and a sensible man. The landlady I could gladly do without.”
Colin tried to think. Why would Mrs. Black have him assaulted, make him a virtual prisoner, and then call in his valet? Perhaps she’d feared he would die. Or perhaps she thought he might soften toward her because she’d had Fletcher brought in to care for him.
She was wrong.
“Very well. If staying still and sleeping it off will get me out of here, that’s what I’ll do.” He paused. “Keep them all away, especially that infernal child.”
“Your, er, daughter?” Devil take him, Fletcher was suppressing a grin.
I have no children, or if I do, they belong to other, better men. That was why he’d made a practice of sleeping with other men’s wives. “Just keep her—and her mother—away.”
Chapter 3
Bridget accosted the valet as soon as he came downstairs. “How is Mr. Warren doing?”
“As well as can be expected.” Fletcher was a dignified individual, but not the least bit high in the instep. “My master has reluctantly acknowledged that he must remain quiet for the moment. With luck, I may be able to take him home tomorrow.”
“I trust he will find time to speak to me before he leaves,” Bridget said.
The valet didn’t need to answer; his hesitation said it all. “My master is not usually discourteous, but I cannot take it upon myself to promise anything.”
Colin still blamed her for last night’s misfortune. He didn’t believe a word she’d said! “He hasn’t begun to remember what happened?”
“He may never do so,” Fletcher said. “I saw similar cases whilst serving in the army. It is as if the incident was never recorded in the memory and so cannot be recalled.”
“He thinks I had him set upon! I would never do such a thing.”
“I shall do what I can to persuade him to speak with you,” Fletcher said, his voice and gestures again ponderous with doubt. “But even if I succeed, I cannot promise a favorable outcome.”
Colin woke in the small hours of the morning to the sound of Fletcher’s snores from the adjoining bedchamber. Mrs. Black had moved, along with her daughter and the nursemaid, to a tiny attic chamber so he wouldn’t have to share a room with his valet. If this apparent act of consideration was a ploy to elicit his sympathy, it wouldn’t work.
Damn. If only Fletcher weren’t so favorably disposed toward Mrs. Black. Usually, Colin trusted Fletcher’s judgment in everything from clothing to boot blacking to, yes, people. Not that Fletcher actually tried to sway him; he merely made it clear from his demeanor that he expected better of his master.
Which was why Colin ignored Fletcher’s disapproval when it came to various vices, such as gaming hells and loose women . . .
He didn’t want to think about women. As for gaming hells, that new one had been a mistake.
Particularly if Mrs. Black’s story were true, and if the fellow who’d been following him wasn’t one of her flunkeys. And if the person who’d attacked him had been waiting outside not to rob just anyone, but him in particular. One couldn’t allow that sort of thing to happen. It made one look a fool and an easy mark for the future.
He had an idea about who else might have attacked him and how to deal with the scoundrel. It might even be fun. A far worse problem was that he didn’t want Mrs. Black’s story to be true.
Oh, Emma. What if she really is my daughter?
He hadn’t spoken to his dead sister in a good while. Years ago, after her death, she had come to him in dreams, and gradually he’d found himself talking to her whenever he found himself at a loss.
If she is your daughter, then you’re her father. Which sounded facile, but translated into adult language, it meant he was responsible for Sylvie.
God help him, that’s what he’d tried to avoid all these years. After his colossal failure to take care of Emma he couldn’t—wouldn’t risk it ever again.
You’re not at that again, are you? Emma said. You really must set it behind you. I shouldn’t have followed you all over the place. And I’m perfectly happy where I am now.
Colin didn’t consider himself a religious man, but he supposed he must believe in something, or his chats with Emma wouldn’t always indicate that she was content in the afterlife. “But that doesn’t absolve me from blame,” he said. “I should have noticed you earlier. I should have brought you back home, not just sent you. Emma-love, I’m not fit to be a parent.”
If she’s your daughter, then you’re her father, Emma said again.
That was the problem with the truth—you might fight it, but you couldn’t change it. What a damn shame he couldn’t ask her advice about his problem with women, but that wasn’t the sort of thing you discussed with your sister, especially one who had died at only six years old.
He could almost see her rolling her eyes. She’d been a pert, precocious little thing. He still missed her. Colin-love, either I’m alive in an afterlife or a figment of your imagination, but in either case I know everything about women and about you.
How embarrassing.
Look on the bright side, she said.
“There’s a bright side?”
Well, yes! If your pollywoggle never shows any interest again, you’ll have only the one child to worry yourself to death about. Her merry laughter faded as the door to the next chamber opened.
“Did you call, sir?”
Colin sighed. “No, Fletcher. I was wakeful and talking to myself.” While his valet took it upon himself to dose Colin with more of the evil-tasting remedy, Colin thought about his sister’s laughter. She wouldn’t laugh about something so important to him unless she thought he was being foolish.
Good Lord. If he started believing these visitations were real, he might as well commit himself to Bedlam.
If only there was a way to prove whether the girl was his child. If he allowed himself to imagine acknowledging her, something burned in his gut—the same indignation that would drive him to find out who had robbed him. He couldn’t put up with being gulled. He couldn’t tolerate being bested unless in a fair fight.
Nor could he break a promise. “In your opinion, Fletcher . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“Does the dreadful child resemble me?” He couldn’t rely on his memories of Emma, nor could he compare Sylvie with the miniature of Emma that was at home in Lancashire.
“I cannot really say, sir. She has a similar eye color, but her hair is much fairer than yours. However, it may well darken as she matures.”
“So there’s nothing to prove it either way.”
“I fear not,” Fletcher said, “except Mrs. Black’s obvious good nature.”
“You’re only saying that because she’s another blasted Celt, like you.” Fletcher’s mother, a Scotswoman, had been Colin’s nurse. Not that Colin had anything against the Scots—or the Irish for that matter—except their tedious attachment to their barbaric Celtic heritage.
“She’s half Celt,” Fletcher said. “Like me. It’s what makes us able to put up with the bloody English.”
That was the worst of having a valet who had also been one’s childhood friend. Long ago, they had tacitly agreed not to discuss this particular subject, as it only led to acrimony. Colin cursed himself for bringing it up, but he didn’t have to trust Bridget just because Fletcher did.
“If I could be sure Mrs. Black didn’t have me set upon . . .” Not that that would prove anything either, but it would require him to talk to he
r, particularly if she had saved his life rather than attempted to deprive him of it. He propped himself on his good arm; that vile mixture had considerably dulled the pain. “She said she had two boys follow me to the gaming hell. Have them brought here in the morning so I can question them.” His stomach grumbled. “I’m ravenous. Think you can find me something to eat?”
Bridget greeted with relief the news that Colin was awake and had devoured two of Millie’s pork pies. She wasn’t so pleased to hear that he had demanded to question the urchins who had followed him. If they helped sway him, she would of course be thankful—but she wasn’t used to being considered a fraud.
Which she was, of course. She’d been a fraud for years. She sent for the boys and ordered them to be scrupulously polite to Mr. Warren, but tell him the absolute truth, regardless of what he seemed to want to hear.
Colin received the boys sitting up in bed. He’d had Fletcher shave him and swathe him in an ornate silk dressing gown. Someone had admonished the boys to be respectful, not a natural state for restless, inquisitive London street brats. They came into his room, bowed awkwardly, and stood before him, poised between fascination and suspicion, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.
Colin felt a bit like a schoolmaster. He’d disliked most of his own masters, so he didn’t relish the role. “Good morning, boys. Tell me your names.”
“I’m Bob,” said the older, taller one, whose carrot-top clashed appallingly with his tattered red muffler.
It would have given Colin a headache if he weren’t already so afflicted. Damn it all, he remembered that clash of colors from a few days earlier. The fellow with the spotted neckcloth had been following him. To ensure that his pursuer didn’t realize he’d been seen, Colin had looked the other way and noticed carrot-top passing the time of the day with a scullery maid.
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 5
